A Knowing Woman
by blackhair
Summary: Set during the episode Siren´s Call 6x3. I was wondering what was going on and going through Eames´mind during the time Bobby was inside the study with Ray Wiznezky.


Disclaimer: It was all Dick Wolf´s idea, not mine, so it belongs all to him. sniff

A/N: Ok, this is my VERY first L&O: CI fanfic, even though I´ve played with several storylines in my head for years… I love to think of a B/A ship, for the tension/harmony between the two of them on screen is just too strong to miss.

Bad thing is just, that German is my mother tongue, and I have no BETA, so all the mistakes (and I believe there´ll be plenty) are mine and remain dormant until some nice reviewer points them out to me.

I´d be very happy about C&C, if you want to rage at me, because I´ve written something you absolutely can´t cope with, please, send me a private message.

This one here is set during the "Siren´s Call", I was just wondering what was going on and through Eames´ head, when Bobby dealt with Ray.

* * *

**A Knowing Woman**

I shut the door behind me carefully, trying to keep my face as expressionless as possible. It wouldn´t do the trembling girl and her mother in front of me any good if I let the emotions show that are raging through my mind right now. And neither would it do any good to the men I´ve just left, least of all me.

_Breath, Alex_, I think. _You´ve dealt with situations like these before. _

Situations like these.

I almost laugh, for this sounded like something my shrink would be saying about this mess, adding that the occurrence of said situations has increased since I´ve accepted a certain Bobby Goren as my partner. The part of me who´s a cop though, has acknowledged Goren´s staggering ability to gauge every element involved and to come up with the best solution for the victims and their families most of the time. I trust him implicitly as cop, as his partner. Otherwise I would not have dared to leave his side to deal with Wiznezky alone.

The other part of me however, the person who is not Detective Eames, but Alexandra, the woman who has lost her husband due to a bullet, who has given birth but is not a mother, who knows that these situations can turn out to be unpredictable in spite of everything the famous Bobby Goren can think of – this part is right now paralyzed with a mixture of fear, anger, disappointment.

I fear I might lose Bobby this time, for he seems to have pushed his luck too far already in the past and Wiznezky seems far too deep embedded in his personal hell to me to be discouraged from the path he has taken. I long to rage at Bobbys habit to involve himself far too deep into the perp´s hell, to make himself vulnerable by sharing things like his mother´s state of health, while he keeps me on the outside. I´m deeply hurt by the fact that Bobby hasn´t told be before about his mum, that I had to find out while he was talking to the suspect… And beneath this emotional havoc lies a sentiment, which I dare not to name right now, for it threatens to shatter my mask of cool professionalism if I do and …

"Detective?"

Mrs. Wiznezky´s soft voice startles me out of my thoughts, her daughter, Emily, is standing at her side, clutching her mother´s hand and looking as bad as I feel. She tries to focus on me and then asks in a timid voice:

"What is it with Daddy?"

_He just reached the peak of a hell__ of a week_, my snarky little, inner voice provides dutifully, but I settle for a try to explain: "My partner… he wants to talk to him alone." I carefully leave out why. "They´ll come out soon enough. Perhaps if we could go into the living room, we can talk there…" I want us to move away from the door, just in case. To emphasize my intention I point down the hall while I reach for my cell phone with the other hand, still unsure about calling Ross, whens Joyce draws in a sharp breath. Looking into her pale face I see her eyes riveted to the point of my waist, where the empty gun holster protrudes under my jacket.

And she knows.

I can see it in the way she closes her eyes and drapes a thin arm around the shoulders of Emily, as if she tries to protect her from the things to come, even the worst. Biting my lip I refrain from cursing – I, of all people, should´ve known what it means to be the wife of a cop: it changes the way you see people, it makes you more perceptive for the small things in your environment, especially when there happens to be a fellow officer who lacks his weapon all of a sudden.

When Mrs. Wiznezky opens her eyes again, I can almost physically feel the grief and weariness that resides there and for one moment I wish every man to hell, who´s ever thought of solving his problems with a gun. Obviously none of them seems to realize, or wanting to consider the extent of sorrow they cause with their actions. Even my Joe had not thought about the consequences, when he´d moved between the perp and his possible victim, making himself a formidable target.

Silently we proceed to the living room, I fall back a little to keep an eye on the closed door and wait.

* * *

I shift nervously, my gaze alternately focused on the distraught couple beside me and the wooden door of the study. The voices behind it are getting louder, a nerve-racking pattern of Bobbys smooth baritone and Wiznezkys rough bark. 

Emily begins to cry, little sobs are escaping her mouth while she sits at the edge of the sofa, ready to run to her father´s side at any moment. Her mother rubs her trembling hand over her back - it seems to be the only thing which keeps Emily from bolting down the hall.

The longer we wait – it feels like hours instead of mere minutes – I desperately try not to be overwhelmed by the growing numbness in my gut. Even when I was in Jo Gage´s grip I didn´t feel as helpless as I do now and it makes me sick.

I can´t protect him the way he protected me.

_Hell of a __detective you are, Alex. Bobby sent you away to be safe, he doesn´t need your protection. Maybe he doesn´t even want it… _

That thought makes me shiver.

_Please, God…__ not again, not him, not now. _

A subtle movement in the corner of my eye and when I turn I find Joyce looking at me thoughtfully.

And I know that she knows.

The sudden silence alarms us more than any screaming would have and there´s Bobbys voice again, calling for Emily. She emits a cry and runs off before her mother can grab her but I get a hold on her arm as she´s passing me.

"No, stop!"

Emily tries to break the vice-like grip I have on her arm, which I know will leave bruises for certain, but I don´t let her go.

The racket of a fight reaches us, followed by a loud thump of something heavy and metallic hitting the wooden floor. _The revolver_, I realize and I hold my breath. Emily goes still.

Then the door opens.

* * *

Ray Wiznezky emerges first. His face is a mask of grim resignation, which unnerves me a bit – how can he be so calm after he threatened to kill himself almost in front of his thirteen-year-old daughter? But every thought about the man vanishes when I take in Bobbys appearance. Using his superior height, he gently guides Wiznezky into the entrance area. 

In order to call some of the other cops in to take Wiznezky away, I let Emily go, who takes a few insecure steps into her father´s direction, while her mother remains in the doorway of the living room.

Within moments the room is busy with blue uniforms and Bobby steps away to make room for them. He looks drained, emotionally and physically, as if the minutes he spent in the study have lasted several years instead. And yet as he looks at me, his dark eyes light up a bit and the corner of his mouth curves into an eerie resemblance of the boyish smile I love so much.

I walk over at his side and lay my fingers on his arm, briefly, hoping that he´ll be able to draw some strength from the feelings I try to impart – gratitude and relief.

_I´m here for you__, remember that._

The way his slumped shoulders straighten a bit and the deep breath he takes is answer enough.

Behind me I hear the soft murmur of Joyce. I turn back to see her talking to Ray, whose hands have been shackled in front of him. My momentary confusion fades, when Joyce, her complexion even paler now than it has been before, raises her head and our gazes meet over the room again. Like me, she has rested her slender fingers on her husband´s arm. But he won´t acknowledge the gesture like Bobby had. Instead his withdrawn gaze is resting on a spot somewhere above our heads, his expression even colder than before.

And this time I know.

This time, she´s the one who´ll lose.

Finis.

A/N: Well, what do you think? May I continue writing or should I kill my muse (when I found her, that is?)


End file.
